The Decomposition Stage
by tiffanybane
Summary: There are stages one goes through when their relationship with another is decimated. There are people like Eric Cartman who take humor from this process. There are reasons why Tweek's addiction to fighting isn't all that bad. Like how I got to help him and take care of him since he couldn't even put a bandaid on right without getting the sticky sides to fuse together.
1. Chapter 1

So I realized that I really need to start pushing out all these one-shot prompts that I was given. There's just so many and I get so psyched, but writing so many hurts so much, and this process literally feels like birth D: My problem is that I intend to write one chapter and end up with multiple (ex. this story).

This prompt in particular was suggested to me by and in dedication to w0rmsign. It's got a very Tweek vs. Craig like feel to it.

* * *

Tweek had shown up again.

It was three in the morning and we were in my bathroom. He was sitting on the sink and I was between his legs pressing cotton balls damp with rubbing alcohol into the cuts on his face.

He'd gotten into another fight. There were bruises on his jawline, a red rash on his stomach where his opponent had thrust their foot. His hands were trembling with excitement still and his pupils were dilated from the adrenaline. I'd wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck, ran some water through his hair. It was sticking to his skin, a dark blonde where the stands were soaked.

The vermillion shade of his blood diluted in the cotton swab, a gritty pink that morphed into a pastel tint. I switched it out for a clean one and dabbed at his split lip that resembled his already spliced eyebrow, healed and scared from a previous fight. That was a wound I'd cleaned as well, put superglue in it because that was the way Tweek liked things done.

There was little swelling to his injuries in their current state, but they would welt by morning. He'd have to put ice over them before he went to bed, and he wouldn't like that because dramatic temperature changes sketched him out. Tweek liked lukewarm baths and seasonal weather because the climate adjusted gradually in a way that he could adapt with. Hot tubs, snow cones, steaming food and candle wax were quite the opposite. He was often paranoid that he'd send his body into shock if the thermostat was fiddled with too rapidly or if he went into the snow without tempering himself first.

Standing straight, I surveyed his face now absent blood and grime. His temple and forehead were dotted with scrapes, beads of crimson replacing the pebbles once embedded, now removed. Nose scuffed, chin in the same condition, lip busted. The bruise along his jaw was blotted, purple in color. On his shoulder, a portion of his flesh was skinned as though he'd skidded across concrete. His knuckles on either hand had splitting, flaking scabs. All injuries accounted for and calculated, he'd gotten a pretty satisfactory beating.

I didn't care who his opponent had been, but I did wonder how mauled their appearance was. Tweek was fickle; a spontaneous kid who's only confidence was in a fight. He was good at transforming his bottled anxiety, fear, and internal conflict into brute force. He was fast, able to dodge efficiently and lunge fluidly. His advantage was in his short stature and agility. There'd been this smile on his face when I'd opened the door, blood staining his teeth and dripping from his nose. It was only when he was enthusiastic that he dealt a significant amount of damage, and his smile had been substantially exhilarated tonight, so it was safe to assume his match had worked out in his favor.

It was intriguing to me that there was an entirely different boy shivering in his shell that would soon trade places with this exterior ghost who was nothing but transparent because all it could do was fight. In reality, Tweek had wide doe eyes—green, crystalized, mint—with dusty blonde lashes. He had crows feet, those little creases in the outer corners of his eyes, when his smile was genuine. Like Stripe, he could wiggle his nose and I thought it corresponded with his character and the animalesque slope of his bridge. His mouth was the epitome of his femininity, full lips with their shapely form, bottom curved and pronounced cupid's bow. They were a muted pink, tender from their wound. This was always what he was even when he tried to be someone else, when his anger dominated and abused what was left.

His flimsy overcoat couldn't trick me like it did other people. His classmates and the adults whose opinions never went farther than "He's a problem child." They honestly thought he was some vicious scrap of undomesticated unpredictability. To them, he was a medicated mess that couldn't correctly interpret what he was doing. That was their excuse and they used it on him more than he did on himself. Very few actually understood that he was more observational compared to a majority of the people that classified him as clueless, that they underestimated him. It never happened across their minds that he had potential.

Only his friends found his twitchy, anxiety-saturated personality charismatic because it was seldom someone as quirky as him came along. Only his parents knew of just how soft and bashful he was, an indisputable fact because even the most general things could make him blush and stutter. Only his psychiatrist wanted to help because it was obvious that he needed the reassurance, needed to be told that it was okay to breathe. Only his teachers believed he'd be successful because no one else saw his exceeding grades or test scores.

Those were who saw that far deep. Not the ones that didn't even matter. But he wanted to please them just the same. So he'd tried and he'd failed and he'd gotten angry and then he'd realized that he couldn't please them so he'd figured out a way to at least get their attention by hurting them in the same way they had hurt him.

He's been physically fighting anyone who will give him a chance for about eleven months, since junior year where he'd finally given into the pressure.

"Am I good?" Tweek asked, voice hoarse like someone had shoved dead leaves down his throat and stepped on his neck. He'd been screaming.

"Yeah," I said, raising a hand to brush his bangs from his forehead. His skin was still warm from the exertion. "You're good."

He smiled up at me, crows feet apparent. His eyelids were half-mast, fatigue wearing him thin. "Thank you." When he hopped off the counter, the top of his head reached my collarbones. "Can I s-spend the night?"

No, I could've said, probably should've just to see the rapid fall of his features._ No, you can't because it's three in the morning and I wanted you to interrupt my sleep so I could get out of bed, clean you up, and send you home_. The morning of the first day of school, too. But I wasn't a humorous kind of guy, so I told him he could stay instead and left to collect some clothes he might not drown in.

What I found was nothing. I never could whenever he chose to appear but I checked every time. Tweek was laying in my bed wearing his boxers and a V neck shirt of mine when I closed my dresser drawer and turned around. He hadn't made it under the covers though his head had managed to land on a pillow where he'd quickly clonked out, fast asleep. I walked over and got in beside him, impartial towards the bathroom light neither of us had turned off.

* * *

The blonde was nestled against my side when my mom came in to let me know I'd slept through my alarm. "Jesus Christ, Craig. Learn to take care of yourself," she chastised. I watched her through bleary eyes as she threw open my dresser drawers and pulled out different articles for me wear. "All you ever do is sleep. Get a job or hang out with your friends. I'm sure they miss you!"

"No," is all I said. She slammed the door on her way out.

Tweek spasmed, startled by the collision and noise that was relatively frequent when you lived in a family full of assholes. He sat up immediately, cradling his head and hissing beneath his breath.

I wished I'd woken up sooner so I could've coherently experienced the blonde sleeping so close. It was just that I always missed it for every kind of reason and I just wanted one occasion where nothing could stop me from relishing in his proximity. "Headache?" I asked.

"Yeah," he whimpered, wrapping his arms around his head.

"That's expected after what you did." Sitting up, I leaned back on one palm and used the other to massage the nape of his neck. The ends of his hair tickled the back of my hand.

"Like I d-don't know that," he snorted, arms going slack. They fell limp once my fingers and thumb began kneading behind his ears.

My brows lifted shortly as I scoffed and said, "You had me miffed."

"Don't be a dick. You're the one who taught me how to punch."

"I did," I agreed. But it had backfired on me because now all Tweek liked to do was get his face pummeled. He liked to come over in the early mornings and force me to see what was basically my own fault since he couldn't go home with a bloody nose and bruises on his body. I hadn't meant for him to take my lessons in the direction he ultimately did. The only reason it'd even come up was so that I could have an excuse to touch his hand when I showed him how to correctly make a fist, his waist and legs into offensive or defensive positions.

His addiction to fighting wasn't all that bad, though. I got to see him all the time now that he'd started getting into late night fights. I got to help him and take care of him since he couldn't even put a bandaid on right without getting the sticky sides to fuse together. I owned his trust in ways nobody else could because his other friends weren't as quiet or impassive as me. They openly cared too much, would attempt to intervene, and that's what had sent him to _me_: a believer of personal choice. If Tweek wanted to eat dirt every day, then there was no point in hindering that process. He'd do it either way.

Raising his head, causing my fingers to slip through his hair, the blonde asked me, "Can we skip school today?"

Although his locks were in knots, I liked the feel of them. He had such an odd texture to his hair that was both course and smooth against my fingertips. "I have a test in my third hour." Deeming that an inadequate explanation, I added, "Because I'm a senior and I need to graduate."

A frown tugged on the corners of his lips. The one that was split was probably weeping at the stretch. "Okay," he murmured.

Removing my hand from his hair, I rolled out of bed and padded toward my dresser, bypassing the clothes my mom had thrown on my floor during her fit. "If you want to shower, you should do that now." We were already going to be late so we'd have to sneak through the gates and forge some passes from Howie. He was a terrible security guard, but if he liked you, it was near impossible to get in trouble.

_Punished_ after getting in trouble would be the correct term, actually. Howie always caught you, but he was the type of adult who exercised verbal lectures, not the principal or detention.

Today must've had a bland atmosphere, I noted. My outfit ended up consisting of a white t-shirt, black jeans, and that was about it. I'd roll the hems up and put some boots on though my style would remain weak. On a scale, tasteless was my minimum and boring was my max. The only articles that I owned with the any personality were ones Tweek had suggested I buy.

Oftentimes I was his model and I was okay with that because he liked variety, knew what looked good with what, and matched colors well. Cardigans were his favorite. Low buttoned, deep V necked pieces that he wore overtop patterned button ups. He favored bow ties, and ripped a large fraction of his jeans into cut offs. I always blamed his niche for style on his effeminate nature. He was gay and I made it a habit to tease him about it all the time because I liked reminding myself that I had a chance if I ever decided to go for it.

As the blonde scooted off the edge of the bed, he asked, "D-Do you still have my jeans?"

He'd left a pair the last time he was here so I'd washed and kept them. Tweek didn't like wearing dirty clothes and he was the type that wore something once and wouldn't touch it again until it went through the wash and dry cycle. "Yeah," I assured him, pulling them out of my drawer and handing them to him. He took them and scurried off toward my bathroom.

I knew he'd go commando and put on one of my shirts because he did it all the time. Basically, I shared my clothes with him. The shirts at least since he'd just disappear inside my jeans and I'd never find him again.

While he was gone, I dressed myself and ran my fingers through my hair. It was thick and did what it wanted so I let it have it's way. Inanimate choice was also a belief of mine.

When Tweek reappeared, he was shirtless and his hair was wet and I knew he wasn't wearing anything under those jeans and he liked them tight and he caught me staring, looked me dead in the eye as he rifled through my apparel. His face was flushed and it wasn't just from his lukewarm shower. "Is there a bug on me?" He asked in all seriousness.

"No. No bugs." _I just like to look at you._ But he was sketchy and I didn't want to scare him away. There were reasons why he's never been in a relationship and I didn't want to test any of them.

Relief softened the jagged edges of his features. "There was a b-bug in my hair the other day. Thomas got it out. Nearly shit myself," he said, returning to his search. Oh, some of the things he shared with me.

"That's because your hair is so blonde it looks like a flower," I informed, sitting on the corner of my bed. He gave me a humorless glance. "One time in fifth grade, Clyde was changing his clothes and a spider crawled out of his underwear." Tweek seemed as though he didn't know whether he wanted to be terrified or find the anecdote hilarious. "He wouldn't stop crying. I've never laughed so much in my entire life."

"You j-just said that with a straight face and absolutely no emotion in your voice. Obviously, that memory is just _s-so_ dear to you." I looked at him like I didn't know what else he expected me to do. He shook his head and giggled. It was a chiding, tinkling sound. Whenever it arose, it made me wonder if maybe we were flirting.

"It's my most memorable memory," I agreed. He always thought it was funny when I took him literally.

This time he laughed and I was inwardly triumphant. "I don't think I've ever heard you laugh."

"That's bullshit." The blonde pouted, rolling up one of my shirts to aim and throw. "For all the years we've been friends," I said around the fabric now covering my face, "I'm sure that I've laughed at least once or twice. Three if you've been lucky."

Before I could remove it myself, Tweek flung the shirt off my face. "You don't _laugh_." He was standing in front of me. My eyes were fixated on the discoloration of his stomach, the dark shades melding together into one colossal bruise. "You say 'that was a good one' or 'I'm so funny, dude'."

My gaze snaked up the expanse of his skinny torso, past his protruding collarbones and slender neck. "But I am funny," I told him.

He rolled his eyes and slipped his thin limbs into one of my sweaters. The cream colored fabric complimented his naturally pale skin. "No, you're just stupid."

"That too." By now the blonde was exasperated. I stood up, my near proximity causing him to take a step back. "Are you ready?"

Shaking his head, Tweek said, "I need to brush my teeth."

I nodded my head because I did too.

We always found ourselves brushing our teeth in my bathroom together. He didn't have a gag reflex and it was always intriguing to me how much farther his toothbrush—the one I bought for him to keep here since he appeared so randomly and unprepared—could go, especially when he ran the bristles over his tongue. I had to keep myself in check at times like those that way I wouldn't stare shamelessly at his mouth.

Patting his damp lips with a washcloth, he shut off the water and looked up at me expectantly. Two minutes of vigorous brushing was what the dentist suggested—Tweek went for three. At the directional nod of my head, we exited the bathroom as well as my room, walked down the stairs, and past the kitchen to escape the house through the entry hall. I'd grabbed my keys off the counter and was shutting the door when my mom called out, "You're late, Craig! Cut the bullshit otherwise your friend isn't allowed over at _three in the fucking morning_ anymore!"

Despite the fact that she couldn't see me, I flipped her off through the curtained kitchen window as we got into my car. "S-Sorry," Tweek apologized, buckling himself in. He tightened the strap across his lap and chest as a secondary safety precaution.

"She says that every time," I reminded him, backing out of my driveway.

"I'll t-try to be quieter." But he was just like my mom because she'd never take away his early morning privileges just like he'd never soften his clumsy footsteps. Fiddling with his fingers in his lap, Tweek timidly asked, "C-Could we stop somewhere and get something to eat? I never had dinner last night."

"Sure." There was a Jack in the Box on the way to school. He liked the curly fries.

Halfway there—a time frame of which I was sure he'd been building up the confidence to speak—he inquired, "Can we eat inside?"

For him to scarf down some curly fries and butcher our chances of making it to first period? We only had so much time left before the gates would close, locked shut until second hour. "No." His insistence that we do other things rather than go to school was beginning to come across as suspicious. Skipping school, stopping to eat—he was trying to buy time.

It wasn't until we'd gone past the drive-through that I questioned him. I had a vague idea of what was on his mind, what he was trying to escape. "Who did you get into a fight with last night, Tweek?"

His injured jaw paused its chewing. Although that was enough to confirm my assumption, it didn't tell me who his contender had been. The blonde always had his reasons, so he must've had a good one if he was wary of passing by his opponent.

Silent, Tweek kept his enemy to himself and ate in his own company. There was a tightness to his brow, a thickness with every swallow. His foot tapped a spontaneous beat against the floor. He was clearly disgruntled, stressed by my acknowledgement of the problem he'd gotten himself into, but I think that if he had the right to ask me to ditch school for him, then I deserved to know why and who.

We were in the school parking lot, just parked and reaching for our backpacks when he grabbed my arm and blurted out, "He's on the football team. One of the benchwarmers. I t-teased him about it until he fought me. He's going to get the others to fuck with me. I got too excited and I" —his fingers tightened, pressing into my skin— "…I said s-shit about the team."

Well, fuck.

Clyde was on the football team and Clyde did _not_ like Tweek. If he got even a whiff of the blonde talking shit, he was going to use it to its full advantage. My best friend was jealous of Tweek. Jealous of my lenience towards him. How nice I was and how well I treated him. The abundance of time we spent together, the generous amount of care I supplied him with. Anything that had to do with the blonde, Clyde's natural instinct was to despise and exterminate. I wasn't allowed to talk about Tweek in his presence and Tweek wasn't allowed to _be_ in his presence.

"I'm sorry, Craig. I'm so sorry." He tugged on my arm to get me to look at him, and when I did, there was guilt and fear in his big eyes. "He was just so _easy_. I-I couldn't stop myself." When I didn't say anything, he interpreted it as anger and continued rambling this messy stutter that made little sense.

What my silence actually meant was that I was in a jumbled train of thought. We needed to get out and go to class but I needed to think of a way to keep Tweek from getting tag teamed. He could handle himself fine against one person, but not a fraction of the football team that was gullible enough to be provoked by a few secondhand insults. They would be wild, an incompatible combination of flustered and egotistically wounded. Tweek would end up in the hospital and that wasn't something he could handle.

He was going on about how I just _knew_ that he couldn't control himself when such an effortless opportunity presented itself. His hand was clasping my shoulder now, fisting my shirt while the other clenched my bicep. "Tweek." I reached out and grabbed his jaw, forcing our eyes to connect. He flinched as I came into contact with his bruise. "You find me at lunch. You get out of class early and meet me at mine. I'm going to talk to Clyde in third hour. Okay?"

The nod of his head and the level of his stare were intent. He understood the plan: I was going to protect him.

"T-Thank you," he whispered, fingers loosening. His expression morphed, all rough features turned delicate. The intensity of his eyes became vibrant like adoration. He sat there, ogling up at me.

This Tweek was so different in comparison to the other. Their similarities were so few that I couldn't even pinpoint any of them, but that might've had something to do with the way the blonde's palms were progressing up my neck, fingers in my hair and thumbs grazing my cheeks. My hand on his jaw grew apologetic, fingertips brushing the tenderized flesh of his face.

His eyes were so wide that his lashes were touching the bone of his brow. I followed the flat line of his nose down to his parted lips where the tips of his teeth were showing. I've gotten caught glancing at his mouth before, just not quite like this. "Thank you," he murmured a second time, pulling me forward. He tilted his head and inclined his chin, pressing lightly against my lips a chaste kiss. The blonde was about to pull away, but I brought him in, nudging our mouths together again.

Inhaling shakily, Tweek applied a tentative pressure to the kiss, fingers curling in the hair behind my ears. My hand slid to the nape of his neck, holding him to me as my other wrapped around the back of his elbow. We broke apart with a fragile sound, lips still touching. Our mouths shifted, fitting together in a pattern. I kissed his bottom lip, teeth unintentionally nicking the skin. He pressed a little harder so I tugged him a little closer. Tweek scooted toward me, raising a leg to face my direction better. His lifted knee touched my own, compelling my fingers to twitch as I restricted their movement.

They wanted to touch his leg, but if I did, it might knock him from his stupor and I certainly didn't want that. I had to do something, though, whether it was minuscule or not. So I ran my palm up his arm to encircle his slender bicep. It drew him near and the bend of his arms must've been bothersome because he wrapped them around my shoulders. The movement was so instantaneous that my hand suddenly had nowhere to go but down, landing on his thigh. This was his own doing—his fault—and I grabbed his skinny leg by default, adding to our kiss by sucking on his lip.

His response was to shudder, mouth opening further. A moistness entered our kiss, a warmth and a breath and Tweek was latching onto me to create a seamlessness that there hadn't been before. I tightened my hold on the back of his neck, purposefully nipping at the flesh between my teeth. The heat in his cheeks was radiating, soaking into my skin. It was awesome getting to do this, making him react in such a way. He pulled backwards with a hum, eyes fluttering open.

One last kiss, a short and fleeting thing, was placed against his mouth. It just kind of happened, but I was glad I did it because that's when Tweek smiled, his lips bruised and wet. He gazed up at me, pupils dilated until they blotted out the eccentric green of his eyes. "What was that?" He asked, voice hushed and lilting, breathless almost.

My mouth opened as if to explain, except a kiss like that was pretty self-explanatory, so I grinned instead because I was _giddy_. I was content. I was impressed. I was waiting for it to hit me. Tweek and I had just _kissed_. Tweek who was impossible. The boy who couldn't be pleased because he was too troubled to accept any favor from another. He'd just kissed this apathetic fuck and smiled afterwards. I think that was a good sign.

"I'll uh," he shook his head and his blush burned brighter. "I'll see you at lunch." As I nodded my head, he unwound his limbs from my shoulders and stepped out of the car. "B-Bye, Craig."

He waved, fingers trembling. I watched him walk away with my shirt on raking a hand through his hair, and clucked my tongue. "Cool."


	2. Chapter 2

The farthest I got in third hour was to the door when Clyde ground out "Dude" between his teeth and pushed himself out of his seat. I could see the contortion of his features from the front of the class. His eyes were blazing, auburn color flickering savagely. There was an enraged curl to his lips. With this, I could tell that him and his team had most definitely had a productive conversation regarding Tweek. They'd shared in the offense they took to his slander and had decided how to redeem themselves.

He waited for me to reach him before shoving me in the chest. It was a warning, nothing with enough force to actually make me budge. "Learn to control gay fucking friend," he seethed.

I clamped down on his shoulder and thrust him back down into his seat. As I took my own, I said, "Tell me that you have control over your team and I'll do what I can."

"Do you even know what he did?" I nodded my head. "Did he tell you the truth?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, I can tell you right now he's not getting through the day without getting the shit beat out of him," Clyde spat.

"So what makes your version so special?" Leaning back in my chair, I stuck my legs out and crossed them at the ankle. "What did Tweek keep from me?"

"How do you even put up with him?" Of course I would be entirely ignored. Once my best friend got going, he could never figure out how to quit. "That kid is crazy. One day he's going to snap and use a knife or a gun or something. You won't be so indifferent when that happens."

His argument was pointless. "Tweek's too scared to use a _plastic_ knife."

Clyde ran a hand through his rich cocoa colored hair, frazzled by my nonchalance. "He's psychotic, Craig!"

Those early to class glanced over their shoulders to spectate the small outburst. Our teacher, residing at her desk, stared us down threateningly. She had no tolerance toward distractions, knew how to keep order and a silent classroom. The bell would be ringing, meaning that she would have full rein in the next few minutes. It was clear that she was waiting for that moment to crack down on us. We needed to get out what we could before that happened, because once it did, the only way we'd be able to hold a conversation was on our way to detention.

"And you care too much," I retorted. "You act like Tweek is the only one talking shit. Plenty of people say worse things about you guys all the time. I can guarantee your own team members do. Just like you do them. This is high school; you should've expect anything less." The football team was practically one gigantic brother to me for all of the secrets Clyde has had the courtesy of generously telling.

An airy scoff, one of disbelief, left the confines of Clyde's mouth. "He beat up a girl. The benchwarmer he antagonized? His girlfriend tried to help so he attacked her. She's got two black eyes, dude."

"She got in his way. He would've done the same if she'd been a guy." I shrugged my shoulders. "There's really not a difference."

"Not a difference?" The brunette exclaimed, incredulity marring the tone of his voice. "Craig, it was uncalled for! He _hit_ a _girl_."

The female population needed to learn how to suck it up then. "Tweek's gay. He's practically a girl, too." At Clyde's dubious expression, I asked, "Did she hit him?"

"Uh, yeah. He was jumping her boyfriend."

"There are ways to avoid conflict. She shouldn't have gotten in the middle of it. She could've called the cops. She could've gotten help." If a girl was able to put herself in a situation like that, then she was able to harbor the repercussions of doing so. Especially when Tweek was involved. It was belittling _not_ to punch a girl when she entered a fight. Tweek was just impartial like that. He treated everyone fairly, unbiased toward gender, because he wanted to be treated fairly, unbiased toward everything else.

"You can't just—"

The bell rang. A straggler at the door, one foot in the classroom, was told to go to sweep—a designated area in the cafeteria where students were sent for being late to class. During that time, I told Clyde my verdict just as he and the football team had decided theirs. "You can eat lunch with Token. I'm going to be with Tweek today. Have fun getting through me."

Brow furrowing, lip curling, Clyde growled, "Fuck you."

"Language!" Our teacher snapped, tapping her pad of detention slips ominously. She was getting short, I noticed, and would need to restock soon.

My best friend was quiet for the rest of the period, although the glares he sent me throughout class weren't as subtle. I feigned ignorance toward his behavior, rattling him far too easily. He was borderline finger-across-the-neck, I'm-going-to-slit-your-throat threatening me every time I checked on him out of the corner of my eye. I'd started to purposefully glance at him just to see him become instantly alert and feral.

He would've been twice as upset had be known how amusing his little tantrum was, that it effectively passed the time for me. I got the best kick out of his request that he work alone on our newly assigned partner project, something that I'd relish in the future because he'd have no choice but to reconsider and ask for my assistance.

By the time the hour was almost over, I was pretty damn proud of myself for suggesting that Tweek come by before lunch. I imagined him busying himself in the hallway, rocking onto the heels of his boots and raking his fingers through his hair. He'd worry his bottom lip and make sure the time was right, that he wasn't an hour ahead of schedule or accidentally there for fifth hour instead of third. Clyde was going to lose control of his bowels when he saw the blonde outside the door. Tweek would, too.

Today was turning out exceptionally well for being a Tuesday.

Over the intercom, one single note rang shrill, releasing each class to lunch. The agitated brunette shot from his seat, giving me a dead stare on his way to the door.

I followed, hands in my pockets, anticipation in the drum of my fingers against my thighs. He exited the door, and through the rushing of the student body, I saw him take a look down the hallway on either side, the left and then the right. It was then that his features hardened into steel plates of steaming rage. I watched as he violated Tweek's personal space, got real close, and spat, "Fuck you." The same treatment I'd received.

Tweek responded to his provocation, recognized it and related to it. A healthy color rose to his cheeks and his eyebrows shot up enthusiastically. "We'll see," he answered, eyes bright compared to the withering shade of nervous green they'd previously been.

Clyde and Tweek stared at each other, nearly brushing bodies as they inspected both their invader and challenger. A menacing aura shifted like fog, spinning between their feet, and piquing those around them. There was a zone of sorts encompassing their conjoined space. The blonde was significantly shorter, nose upturned to meet Clyde, but he was unfazed by his own dainty stature.

Slowly, the two separated, easing away toward their respective directions. It was all very primal and ridiculously entertaining. Even more so when Tweek turned around, the sight of me completely obliterating his threatening facade.

I smirked and took an inviting step forward. He returned my expression, biting down on his lip as he entered my bland atmosphere, a stark difference from the engaging one he'd just briefly participated in. We usually hugged and he was always the first to initiate contact, but since our kiss, the blonde was being tentative. It was endearing, this bashfulness he often possessed. It was why I liked him. It was also why I liked to mess with his head.

So I kept my hands to myself and gestured with my chin down the hallway. There was a set of double doors at the end that led to the cafeteria. Tweek would want to go there because they served soup at the salad bar and soup was his favorite.

"Are y-you sure we shouldn't leave campus for lunch?" He asked, walking with me down the designated hallway anyways.

"It's useless hiding from them. I shouldn't even be your bodyguard, but maybe I can talk them down."

"I thought you said you'd t-talk to Clyde!" His tone was accusatory.

"I did." The blonde frowned. "He told me that you're getting beat up. It's inevitable."

His steps faltered as he gawked up at me. "But you'd fight with me, though. Right?"

"If you were getting the shit beat out of you, sure."

"Asshole."

"Why didn't you mention that you hit that guy's girlfriend?"

Just as before, Tweek chose not to speak for however long he deemed appropriate. He was very determined about it. We drifted through the hall, mingling with the flow in silence between ourselves. There was incoherent chatter around us like white noise in the back of my head. When he did choose to speak, I had to strain to hear him.

"I-I wasn't sure what your view on hitting girls was. Everyone's u-usually really conservative about it."

"Do I come across as conservative to you?" I asked, brows raised high.

He became flustered, cheeks pink. "I didn't want to turn you off! I… God, Craig. I like you." Rubbing at his arm, he repeated himself. "I like you a lot."

I inwardly hummed at his confession, wrapping up his words inside my chest and letting them reside there to give off heat and affection. "Well I think it's pretty cool that you hit a girl and didn't give a shit."

"Really?" The blonde looked up at me with the same awe in his pastel colored eyes as before. The one that had followed with a kiss.

"Yeah, I did. But don't start beating them up just to impress me or anything," I teased, grinning when his blush spread across his nose.

"I wont," he assured me certainly.

We entered the crowded cafeteria, shoulders shoved together in the massive disarray of students. There were reasons why I left campus at lunch and this was a primary cause. That and the noise. All I could hear was a combination of every single conversation taking place and mouths squishing food damp with grease between their teeth. The fries had no crunch and the taco shells were stale. Administration here favored softer foods so that the cafeteria could hide all of the oil better.

Tweek had little time to gather his surroundings, to compose himself amongst the horde of our classmates before I tugged him behind me. He stumbled against my back, gripping my shirt tightly to keep himself balanced. Through the mob, I'd caught sight of a familiar pack of jersey jackets. They were cutting through the populated lunch tables, a small group consisting of only the most egotistically tender.

They approached us, parting the crowd as they were either given room or made it themselves. The blonde peeked around my body, hands quickly transforming into fists against the small of my back. "Craig," he cautioned. I felt his cheek press against my shoulder blade.

One of the football players pointed at me and thrust his thumb over his shoulder, motioning for me to get the hell out of the way. They knew me, though. I did practice with them when Clyde begged me to keep him company on the field. They knew I wasn't going anywhere.

Another, who I supposed was probably the most offended by Tweek because he was in front, said to me: "Move, Tucker."

Nonverbally, I shook my head. My downplay didn't disinterest the immediate collection of students around us. All were passing curious looks or gathering their friends.

"So the faggot wants to hide, huh?" He mused in order to provoke the blonde, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side.

Much to his chagrin, "faggot" worked on Tweek the way "talentless" worked on the football team. He poked his head through the space between my torso and my arm; I grabbed the nape of his neck to keep him at my side.

Those in front of us smirked and sneered at his appearance. "Let's see what you got, kid."

The blonde's neck strained against my fingers.

I physically warned him to remain motionless by tightening my hold. These guys just wanted to scare him. There wouldn't be any fighting. Football was too important to them. If they started anything, they'd get kicked off the team and they were smarter than that. This wasn't so much about me keeping the football team away from Tweek as it was me keeping Tweek away from the football team, because if he cracked first, then that was when there was going to be a fight. Nobody would be holding back at that point.

Neither of us noticed Cartman standing off to the side, blocked from our peripheral by a layer of accumulated students.

* * *

It was in wood shop that he revealed his intentions. The beginning of them, at least.

There was a familiarity to this hour, fifth period. I didn't want to like it. It had a little too much douche bag, stupid fuck, sleazy bastard, and homo in it. Respectively that meant: Stan, Cartman, Kenny, and Kyle.

Classes where I remarkably knew no one—I'd gone to elementary and junior high with so many of them that it was close to impossible getting a class without a good chuck of the same old idiots—were my favorite. Something had to have happened in the system for me to get assigned this load of shit, though.

I would've dropped the class, hands down. But Tweek had been thrown into the same bullshit situation. I'd switched out his study hall request for wood shop when turning in our class application sheets last year, and I guessed everyone else had been smart enough not to ask for it since he and I never got classes together. There must've been room to bunch all of us together because I never got so many dumbasses in one sitting either.

"Craig. Tweek," Cartman greeted, chummy in the way he came over to our table and smiled at us. We had been hunched over the blonde's homework from another class—an AP course, so he was getting fucked over already. His notes were out and he was listening diligently as I tried to make sense of them where he could not. Our knees were touching, a brush that'd been gingerly implemented, but once registered it as Tweek's, had grown firmer.

We raised our eyes at the distraction. Cartman smiled wider once he had our attention. "I saw you gais at lunch. Getting into fights so soon?"

Excusing him, Tweek looked at me and asked, "How did you just do number five?"

Cartman became flustered at being ignored, further irritated when the bell silenced whatever he'd planned on saying next. A balding man wearing the most unfortunate sweater vest that I was positive Tweek's stomach was roiling over came through the door and commanded that the class take a seat. I watched the enraged brunette stalk toward a table to share a word with his friends.

Stan and Kyle glanced in our direction while Kenny rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Whatever had been said, he wasn't partial to it. He was too fond of Tweek and I.

There was a grin pulling at the corners of Tweek's mouth. I knocked our shoulders together, subtly rewarding him. He smiled wider at my acknowledgement.

"No screwing around, alright?" Our teacher's voice was authoritative, overpowering the squeaking of the dry erase marker against the white board every time he made the stem of a letter like _D_ or _L_. Once his name was written out for the class, he turned around and surveyed the students he'd been given.

His eyes were inspecting each of us and I could feel it when they focused on me in an attempt to deduce what kind of treatment he'd receive from me this year. I sat there, expression impassive, and wondered if he knew that I wouldn't be difficult because I was an ass but because my apathy surpassed my motivation to complete schoolwork. It was going to take a lot out of me to do anything in this class and it was going to take a lot out of him as well. I probably wouldn't get anything done until the final weeks were I'd bust out some C grade material just to get by.

"So who are my troublemakers this semester?" Mr. Adler asked once he'd completed his analysis, palms flat against his desk as he leaned forward.

Two names were given to him. One in unison from Stan and Kyle, another from Cartman.

"Tweek."

"Craig."

Cartman harshly whispered, "I thought we agreed on Craig, you gais."

They could've been right except that they were the ones always causing trouble. All they ever did were stupid things that got irrelevant others involved. I would know; I've been sucked into their interpretation of "fun" before. It had really sucked.

Tweek and I looked at each other. "Yeah, Craig," he giggled. "I think y-your name is pretty agreeable."

Between the slight part of our thighs, I stuck my middle finger out and continued to glance down at it expectantly until the blonde got the gist and followed the line of my sight. He rolled his eyes at my gesture and grabbed onto to my finger to try and force it back into place. "Come on, Tweek," I teased. "You're not even strong enough to move a finger?"

"Asshole," he grumbled beneath his breath, still fussing with my hand futilely. He snuck his fingers beneath my own, probably figuring that if he couldn't put one down that he'd be able to move the rest of them up. I gave him some leeway for being amusing and smirked when it happened to be that his intentions weren't to control my hand at all. He'd just wanted to hold it, weaving our fingers together shyly, almost experimentally. His hands were small and I liked that.

A soft pink pigment appeared on his cheeks, contrasting with the bruise along his jawline. He bit his lip where it wasn't cut and glanced up at me tentatively to make sure that this was okay. My pulse was erratic, an addictive thrum that sang through my veins. It was a powerful sensation and Tweek wasn't allowed to take it away. I situated my hold so that it was tighter, more reassuring. He smiled this fleeting thing that lingered on his lips and crowded my head. Repeated images of how pleasant he looked surfaced inside of my brain.

"Are you gais retarded? Craig would totally win!" Cartman boasted, causing my attention to fixate on the argument he was having with Stan and Kyle while a fraction of me was still idly stuck on Tweek.

The blonde was in the same conflicted condition, glancing over his shoulder at the three and then back at me.

"I don't know, dude," Kyle disagreed. "Tweek's a speedy fuck." Said speedy fuck had to ask me if they were talking about the two of us fighting each other. I nodded my head. "What's _your_ argument?"

"That Craig is huge!" Cartman threw his hands in my direction to emphasize his point even though I was hunched in my seat. "Blonde homos don't stand a chance."

Because of Cartman's comment,_ I_ was given a kick from beneath the table.

"Craig's a beast, sure, but he knows how to fight too well," Kyle said.

Stan added, "And Tweek doesn't know how to hold back. He doesn't stop."

The blonde mumbled indignantly like unlimited energy was a bad thing. Stan was voting_ for_ him. He always had to find some way to turn everything anyone said into an insult.

Cartman scowled. "I'll bet you Craig will beat his ass."

For a second time, Tweek and I made quick eye contact. "W-We're going to fight?"

"Bet us what?" Kyle asked, disbelieving Cartman and that he would give away anything worth betting over.

"I won't call you a dirty Jew for a whole week." The redhead called him a liar. "I'll give you fifty bucks." The redhead reminded him that he was broke. "The hell, brah! What do you want from me?"

Kyle grinned and exchanged a look with Stan. "I want you to apologize to Tweek for ever making fun of him because he's going to prove you wrong."

The hand in mine went slightly slack and the specified terms caused Cartman to freeze up. He shot a vehement glare in Tweek's direction before pursing his lips together tightly. It would injure his dignity to meet the redhead's requirements, but he was a sucker for a good fight. I didn't necessarily blame him since the blonde and I were nearly _the_ ideal fighting match.

"Fine," he eventually grunted. "But if you lose, you have to suck Kip Drordy's dick." When his only answer was a humorless stare, he said, "Okay, okay! Just give me seventy-five bucks. Cash," he clarified. Because Kyle paid in gold teeth and silver dollars.

"I'll split the cost if we lose," Stan offered.

"Okay," Kyle agreed. "We're not going to lose, though."

Their bulky douche of a friend scoffed and went as far as to shake on it.

"You two." He pointed at Tweek and I. "Fight. After school. And I suppose I could find it in me to apologize to the gay boy."

"I guess we are fighting," I mused, my hand suffocating inside of the blonde's temperamental grasp.

* * *

A/N: I'm unsure as to whether or not I'm going to switch out "gais" with the grammatically correct version :/ Damn you, Eric Cartman.

passerby: I'm happy that you find Tweek and Craig as such. I hope that it makes them both more appealing to everyone (:


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